Not strut in streets with Amazonian pace, For that's to cuckold thee before thy face. Their endless itch of news comes next in play; They vent their own, and hear what others say; Know what in Thrace, or what in France is done; The intrigues betwixt the stepdame and the son; Tell who loves who, what favours some partake, And who is jilted for another's sake; What pregnant widow in what month was made; How oft she did, and, doing, what she said. She first beholds the raging comet rise, Knows whom it threatens, and what lands destroys; Still for the newest news she lies in wait, And takes reports just entering at the gate. Wrecks, floods, and fires, whatever she can meet, She spreads, and is the fame of every street. This is a grievance; but the next is worse; A very judgment, and her neighbours' curse; For, if their barking dog disturb her ease, No prayer can bend her, no excuse appease. The unmannered malefactor is arraigned; But first the master, who the cur maintained, Must feel the scourge. By night she leaves her bed, By night her bathing equipage is led, That marching armies a less noise create; She moves in tumult, and she sweats in state. Meanwhile, her guests their appetites must keep; Some gape for hunger, and some gasp for sleep. At length she comes, all flushed; but ere she sup, } Swallows a swinging preparation-cup, } And then, to clear her stomach, spews it up. } The deluge-vomit all the floor o'erflows, And the sour savour nauseates every nose. She drinks again, again she spews a lake; Her wretched husband sees, and dares not speak; But mutters many a curse against his wife, And damns himself for choosing such a life. But of all plagues, the greatest is untold; The book-learned wife, in Greek and Latin bold; The critic-dame, who at her table sits, } Homer and Virgil quotes, and weighs their wits, } And pities Dido's agonizing fits. } She has so far the ascendant of the board, The prating pedant puts not in one word; The man of law is non-plust in his suit, Nay, every other female tongue is mute. Hammers, and beating anvils, you would swear, And Vulcan, with his whole militia, there. Tabors and trumpets, cease; for she alone Is able to redeem the labouring moon.[124] Even wit's a burthen, when it talks too long; But she, who has no continence of tongue, Should walk in breeches, and should wear a beard, And mix among the philosophic herd. O what a midnight curse has he, whose side Is pestered with a mood and figure bride! Let mine, ye gods! (if such must be my fate,) No logic learn, nor history translate, But rather be a quiet, humble fool;